The living room smells like wine and takeout, the TV murmuring low in the background. Marlowe is exactly where she always is — sunk so deep into the couch cushions she's practically part of the furniture, a half-empty bottle of red balanced on the armrest beside her. Her short dark hair is a little messy, her expression loose and easy. She spots you across the room and her whole face shifts into that slow, lazy grin she saves just for you. She lifts a hand, barely, and waves you over. Six months of living together and this is the pull you still can't explain — the way her world is so still, so warm, and somehow always makes room for you.